by Sharon Sala
Wes thought of the lab, the dead animals in the woods and the dissected rodents, and frowned.
“Doing what?”
“He hired them to harvest a herb crop.”
“What kind of herbs?” Wes asked.
Ally was already concerned, and his question hit a nerve.
“He told them they were Chinese herbs. He’s also supposed to be paying them five thousand dollars apiece for the job.”
Wes had suspected all along that the man was involved in something criminal, and her information confirmed his suspicions.
Ally frowned. “Why the interest in Roland Storm?”
“I just caught him following you. From the way it looked, he’s done it before. Were you aware of that?”
All expression disappeared from her face, and Wes immediately regretted his abruptness.
“What do you mean? Like stalking me?”
He nodded.
“When?”
Her face was pale, her hands shaking, but Wes had to give her credit for guts.
“Just now. As you were leaving, I sensed we were being watched. I snuck out the back of the house and found him following you. I think he’d been watching my house, but when you left, he followed you, which led me to believe it’s you and not me he was tailing.”
Ally swayed where she stood. Wes caught her just before she went down. At that point, he realized the shirt was all she was wearing, and again felt guilty that he’d noticed.
Ally started to weep, but she was angry, as well.
“This is so pathetic,” she muttered.
Wes frowned. “What do you mean?”
She pulled from of his arms, needing distance between them.
“I can’t believe this is happening. Although you have made your feelings clear, you’re the first man I’ve ever let get under my skin, so I have no one to blame but myself. I’m just mad as hell for letting it happen.”
When she saw Wes’s expression, she hastened to add, “Oh, don’t panic. I’m not going to jump your bones or beg you for something you don’t feel. But it sucks. As if that’s not enough, my father has been pushing me to marry this loser, because he thinks no one else will have me. Freddie Joe is mean and lazy and bullied his first wife repeatedly. She died last year—probably just to get away from him—but her death left Freddie Joe with no wife and three kids to take care of. And, since I’m such a charity case, everyone is assuming I’d be stupid not to accept his attention.” She swiped angrily at her tears and threw her hands up in the air. “Now you’re telling me that I have another loser dogging my heels, which proves my father was wrong. There is another man interested in me. Although he’s a stalker. Maybe I should be grateful that he’s choosing to keep his interest in me all to himself. Anyway, what’s one stalker, compared to marrying and sleeping with a degenerate like Freddie Joe?”
Wes felt as if he’d been sideswiped. He couldn’t decide which made him angrier—her sleeping with some bullying bastard, being dogged by a creep like Storm, or the fact that she had admitted her feelings for him and he didn’t have the guts to respond. What he did know was that her tears made him sick.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be,” Ally said, then lifted her head, unaware that she’d angled her chin as if bracing herself for some unseen blow. “Pity disgusts me.”
Wes’s eyes narrowed angrily. “I don’t pity you,” he snapped. “I just wanted you to be aware so you could be careful.”
Ally sighed. “Of course, and I should thank you for the warning, which I will take seriously. I apologize for being angry. It wasn’t directed at you, just the circumstances of my miserable life.”
“You’re beautiful,” Wes said softly. “The men around here must be both stupid and blind not to have seen that in you.”
Ally was simultaneously startled and angry. She didn’t want to hear platitudes when her heart was breaking.
“Yes, well, thank you so much for the compliment, but the men up here are too gutless to take a chance on marrying a woman who might give them flawed children.”
The word children hit Wes like a fist to the belly. He tried to draw breath, but it sounded more like a sob. He looked at Ally, then turned away.
Immediately, Ally knew she’d said something wrong. She ran to his side.
“What? What did I say? Whatever it is, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Wes shuddered.
Impulsively, Ally wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head against the middle of his back.
“Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
There was a long moment of silence in which Wes selfishly let himself be comforted, but he had to accept that he wasn’t the only one in pain. His was new and fresh and as devastating as anything could be, but hers came from a lifetime of disappointment and shame, neither of which she deserved.
He turned around, and when she would have turned loose of him, he pulled her close, savoring the softness of a woman against his body.
“I was married. We had a son.”
Ally stilled. She had let herself get too close to a man she didn’t know, and it was all her fault. She wanted—no, needed—to know what made him so sad, but she was afraid of the answers. Still, she waited.
Wes rested the side of his cheek against the crown of her head and closed his eyes, letting himself remember.
“Margaret…Margie…was my childhood sweetheart. We got married after I’d finished basic training.”
Ally felt his arms tightening around her and knew he was remembering another woman, another time and place. It hurt to know she was a substitute, but she’d asked for it just the same.
Wes continued. “She made it fine as a military wife—until we went to war. She was so damned scared and tried not to show it, but I knew. Our son was so small. I think she feared I would die and he would grow up without a memory of the man who was his father. Only I wasn’t the one who died. If there is a God, he has a horrible sense of humor.”
“God doesn’t kill people,” Ally said. “People kill people.”
Wes felt as if he’d been punched. He’d needed to place blame ever since the day it had happened but had never thought of it that way.
“Where were you when I needed you?” he muttered, more to himself than to her, but Ally heard him.
She leaned back until she could see his face.
“I was here, waiting for you to come,” she said.
He groaned, then pulled her off her feet and up against him so tightly that she could barely breathe. When his head lowered and his mouth centered on her lips, Ally thought she would die. It was everything she’d ever dreamed a kiss could be, and at the same time, the saddest she’d ever felt. He was kissing her but remembering the woman who was his wife. It wasn’t what she would have wished for, but she wouldn’t turn him down.
When he finally pulled away, they were both breathless and shaking. It would have been easy to let the kiss be the start to something more. But not even Ally was desperate enough to let the ghost of another woman into her bed. She cupped his face with her hands, then rubbed a thumb across his lower lip, feeling the strength, but remembering the tenderness.
“What happened to them, Wes?”
He drew a deep breath, then closed his eyes.
“Remember the bombing at Fort Benning last year?”
“Yes. It was awful. The news was full of it for months.” Then she realized what he was trying to say. “They were there?”
When he opened his eyes, they were swimming with tears. He nodded.
Her expression crumpled. “Oh, Wes, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, so am I.”
She held him again, but this time there was nothing but comfort in the touch. Finally he pulled away.
“Don’t take Roland Storm’s attention lightly.”
“I won’t,” she said. “I promise.”
He nodded. “If there’s anything I can do for you, just ask.”
At th
at moment, a thought occurred.
“Do you mean that?” she asked.
Wes didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Come to supper Friday night.”
“Okay…but why?”
“Other than another chance to eat my wonderful cooking, I would appreciate a buffer between me and Freddie Joe.”
Wes’s eyes widened.
“He’s coming to eat with you Friday night?”
“Despite my objections and at my father’s insistence, and with all three of his children.”
Wes hadn’t been around children since the day Mikey had died. He didn’t know how he would handle it, but it was the least he could do for her after all she’d done for him.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.
“Yes, I want you here. No, I don’t want to deal with Freddie Joe, but Daddy has given me no choice.”
“I’ll come,” Wes said. “But now I’d better be going before your father comes home and finds you with me and wearing that shirt.”
Ally blushed.
Wes allowed himself one last look, then opened the door.
“Lock this behind me,” he said, and then he was gone.
As soon as he had left, Ally picked up her wet clothes and ran out to the laundry shed, tossed them in the washing machine, adding her father’s now-wet shirt to the mix, then went back in the house and locked the door. The stew was still on the back of the stove, and the pie she’d taken out of the oven had long gone cold. The sight of both turned her stomach. She continued through the rooms, turning on lights as she went. The air-conditioning in the house brought out goose bumps on her skin and made her nipples pointy and hard. Both sensations made her ache in an empty, lonely way, and it occurred to her that she’d never been naked in this house before. There had always been a sense of urgency within her when she undressed, whether for a shower or to change her clothes, that she must hurry and cover herself with clothes. But things were changing—she was changing. Her father had started it by trying to force her into a relationship she didn’t want, and now she had learned a crazy man was stalking her every step.
If that wasn’t enough, Wes Holden had complicated the situation by making her feel things she’d never felt before. The sad part of it all was that no matter what she did, she was going to come out the loser.
She stumbled into the bathroom, then into the shower, and washed until her skin was tingling. When she got out, she felt empty, both in heart and in spirit, but there were still things to be done. She put away the food that hadn’t been eaten, cleaned dishes and cabinets and the floors she’d tracked up, and when there was nothing left to do, gave up and went to bed. But as hard as she tried, she couldn’t get the sound of Wes Holden’s voice out of her head.
You don’t need to be here.
“God help me,” she whispered, then pulled the covers up to her shoulders and closed her eyes.
Sometime later, Gideon came home. The thunderstorm had passed, leaving the roads muddy but the leaves and grass washed clean. He got out of the truck, took a deep, cleansing breath and stretched wearily. It felt good to be home.
Pete had pulled through surgery and, barring complications, would recover completely. Gideon was full of the news of the accident and wanted to talk, but then he remembered that Danny and Porter were in Charleston for the night. And even though the lights had been left on for him, he knew Ally would not have waited up. Ever since he’d introduced Freddie Joe into her life, she’d alternated between being angry and cold toward him. Still, Gideon was a man who rarely admitted he made mistakes, and so the fiasco continued. On Friday Freddie Joe and his three children would be here for a meal. Maybe the children would make a difference in Ally’s eyes.
He locked the doors, checked the windows, then looked in on Ally as she slept. Despite the summer temperatures, she was curled up on her side with the covers pulled under her chin. He smiled. Even as a child, hot or cold, rain or shine, she had slept rolled up in her covers. Nothing had changed.
A short while later, the last light finally went out and the little house went dark. Buddy lay curled up by the door on the front porch, peacefully sleeping, while up on the mountain, peace was a long way from home.
The thunderstorm had passed and the sun was dropping at a lazy angle in the sky, but Wes hadn’t gone directly home. He had decided on a reconnoiter and located Storm’s truck. When he found it unlocked, he tried the keys he’d found. When they fit, it confirmed what he’d suspected. But had Storm been watching Wes—or Ally? He was inclined to believe it was a little bit of both, although he was still puzzled. In a twisted sort of way, he understood why Storm would be stalking Ally. She was a beautiful and single woman.
But why me?
The question kept looping through Wes’s mind without coming back with an answer. Still, there had to be a reason why Wes’s presence threatened Roland Storm enough to put him on the defensive. All he had to do was find it.
Wes looked up the road, then up at the sky. The storm had left enough clouds behind to bring on an early night, and he’d already had one experience coming down off this mountain in the dark. He wasn’t in the mood to do it again.
He tossed the keys on the seat of the truck, locked and shut the doors, then started back down the road. Even though his strides were long, night caught him before he got home.
When he reached the little house, he unlocked the door, then locked it securely behind him after he entered. Then he turned on the lights, kicked off his shoes and dropped his wet clothes in the kitchen beside the washing machine. The thought of a slow, warm shower put speed in his step, and for once, he didn’t care that the showerhead was too low and the room too small. The house was a haven of comfort at the end of a very bad day.
He showered quickly, pulled on a pair of shorts and then went back to the kitchen. The pan of soup was still on the stove where he’d left it. He set it on the burner and turned on the heat. While it was warming, he made himself a ham sandwich, got a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and set it all on the table. He gave the soup a quick stir, then went into the living room and began scanning the multitudes of books on the shelves for something to read.
After browsing through a shelf of fiction, he settled on a book he hadn’t read in years. The cover was worn, the gilt-edged pages somewhat faded, but the author’s name was still dark and vivid, as was the title.
John Steinbeck. The Grapes Of Wrath.
It wasn’t the most uplifting book he’d ever read, but it fit the mood Wes was in. He carried it with him back into the kitchen, laid it beside his plate, then poured the soup into a bowl and took it to the table.
He sat down, taking a moment to savor the shelter of the odd little house and the simple fare he was about to eat. His belly growled, reminding him of how long it had been since he’d eaten, but he still took the time to feel the quiet.
Part of his training in Special Ops had been to ascertain as much of his surroundings as possible with senses other than sight. So he closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath, letting the peace of this place settle deep in his heart.
The smell of tomato soup was right beneath his nose, as was the pungent scent of the mustard that he’d put on the ham. He could smell the fresh bread on the plate and the yeasty scent of the beer that he’d opened. But on a lesser level, he remembered the wet clothes he’d left in a pile by the washer when the scent of decaying leaves and wet cotton shifted through the air.
Somewhere behind him he heard a continuous drip of water and realized he hadn’t turned the faucets all the way off at the sink. Outside, a slight breeze must have come up, because he could hear the intermittent sound of a tree branch scraping against a window and water dripping from the edges of the roof.
This was a safe place. A place of shelter and comfort. Slowly, a great pain shoved itself through his chest, pushing, then twisting at his lifeblood just to remind him that he still lived when his family did not.
He took another br
eath, this time shorter and infinitely more painful, but he took it just the same. Then he picked up the spoon, stirred it through the cooling soup and took his first swallow to satisfy the pangs of hunger.
It was good.
He took another and another, just to prove that he could—just to prove to himself that it was all right to satisfy one kind of pain while clinging to the other.
Then he opened the book and began to read. Every now and then he would take a bite of the sandwich or a drink from the beer until, little by little, he was done with his meal.
Regretfully, he marked his place in the book, washed his dishes and headed for bed, turning out the lights as he went. There was a clock by the bedside. He set it for 6:00 a.m. and started to go to bed when caution stopped him.
He got back up and walked through the dark house, pausing to look outside from every window, then making sure the doors were locked and bolted. He had barred the cellar door from the inside, but he took the time to lock the door from the kitchen to the cellar, as well. There was safety within these walls, but there was treachery without.
Once he was satisfied that he’d done all he could to assure himself of a safe night’s sleep, he took the switchblade from his pants pocket and carried it to the bed. He slid it beneath a pillow, then crawled into bed. Once his head hit the pillow, he was gone.
Just as he was falling asleep, a vague thought began to plague him that he’d forgotten something important. He rolled over on his side, pulled the switch out on the alarm so that he would be sure to wake up on time, and then pulled the covers back up over him.
The air from the window unit blew cool across his back and legs, and in his dreams, he stood at the end of a long road, watching his wife and son walking away without him. He kept calling to them, over and over, but each time he would call, they would simply turn and wave, then resume their journey. He began to cry, and then someone took him by the hand and told him he was no longer alone. When he looked to see, it was Ally.
He woke up with tears on his cheeks.
“Ah, God…if you’re still there, make me understand why.”